


how long it's gonna be (before we get on the bus and cause no fuss)

by samarskite



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enjolras is a Mess, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Grantaire just wants to have everything under control, M/M, a bit of angst but mostly fluff, unnecessary oasis references towards the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 09:51:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10568829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samarskite/pseuds/samarskite
Summary: In which Enjolras allows himself to be lost and scared and seeks for advice, and Grantaire just wants to be helpful even though he's no Combeferre or Courfeyrac.





	

It’s a quiet night in Grantaire’s apartment.

He is pretty bored, to be honest, but he is also not tired at all, so he hasn’t been able to call it a day yet.

He hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol, determined to score the goal he set in his mind five months ago; so, instead of drinking, Grantaire is curled up in a blanket, watching some TV on the sofa and wondering if he should text Éponine and ask her to meet up for breakfast tomorrow morning.

Despite being 100% sure that this is how 80-years-old people spend their Friday evening, he is pretty proud of himself.

Look at him — he’s got his own apartment, he’s going to university and he’s five months sober. If someone told him that this’d be him a year ago, he would’ve grimaced and flipped them off.

It’s almost midnight, and the rain is ticking on his windows; Grantaire likes it when it’s raining and he’s allowed to stay at home. It makes him feel melancholic, but also oddly productive. Most of the paintings he’s proud of, he started them on a rainy day.  
Grantaire is starting to lazily consider the possibility of going to bed, when someone knocks on his door.

He quickly checks his phone; he’s got no missed calls and no texts, so he probably didn’t forget anything he was supposed to do. It’s date night, so Combeferre’s with Éponine, Jehan’s with Courfeyrac, Cosette’s with Marius and Bossuet’s with Joly and Musichetta. Bahorel is probably getting drunk somewhere and Feuilly’s currently in New York. Who the fuck could be knocking on his door at 12 AM on a Friday night?

He eventually gets up and goes to open the door.

The sight leaves him breathless.

It’s Enjolras; his head is bowed down and he’s soaked to the bone, his clothes completely drenched. And he’s _shaking_. At first, Grantaire thinks it’s because of the cold and the rain — which is probably a perfectly correct assumption, but only half true: when Enjolras lifts his gaze and locks his eyes into Grantaire’s, Grantaire realises that he’s crying.  
It’s not even like Enjolras is quietly sobbing, like adults do — he’s crying _wholeheartedly_ , like children do, gasping for hair. His eyes are big, watery and red-rimmed, like he’s been at it for a while now, and big tears are rolling on his cheeks.  
“Jesus Christ on a tricycle”, is the only thing that Grantaire manages to say. Enjolras only sobs in response.

That little sob is what makes Grantaire snap out of his shock: he gently grabs Enjolras by the elbow and makes him come in, shutting the door and trying to reason quickly.  
“What — no, never mind. Stay here. I am going to get you a towel and dry clothes, so you can get changed, alright? And while you get changed I can make you some tea, and then we can talk, or just sit in silence, or watch something, or whatever sounds good to you. Okay, Apollo?”.

Enjolras sniffs quietly and nods. He looks a bit startled and a bit mortified, like he’s profoundly sorry he’s dripping on Grantaire’s floor but he did not expect him to be so kind.  
Grantaire turns on his heels and goes to rummage in his closet to find something that will fit Enjolras, as fast as he can.

He finds a t-shirt from his first years of high school (Enjolras is a bit taller than him, but he isn’t as built as Grantaire) and a pair of flannel pants. He brings the clothes and the towel to Enjolras and points him to the bathroom, then proceeds to make tea and overanalyse the situation.

Grantaire has never had a close relationship with Enjolras. It’s not like they are not friends either, though. They have a lot of friends in common, sometimes they pick up each other if the other one is stranded or drunk and they have tiny, superficial but usually pleasant chats about their lives and their hobbies. Sometimes they disagree on politics, yes, but they also did acknowledge their mutual respect a long time ago.

Enjolras is a god of people. He is tall, he is gorgeous, he is fierce and he believes in every single word he speaks. Grantaire is a mere follower, silently loving him and nursing his heartache with paintings and pining. He never expected much more than small talk and friendly nods, and he never got much more than that. But now — Enjolras showing up at his apartment, in these conditions? It definitely goes off the rails of their unspoken agreement. It’s a new thing, a bit unsettling and a bit scary. For all Grantaire knows, no one has ever seen Enjolras like this, except maybe Combeferre or Courfeyrac.

A quiet _tap tap_ tells him that Enjolras has come out of the bathroom; he turns around and sees him near the kitchen table, barefoot. He dried up his hair and got changed in the t-shirt and the pants; despite Grantaire’s choice of the smallest clothes he had, they still are baggy on his body.

Enjolras’ eyes are still red-rimmed, but now his cheeks look dry.

Grantaire hands him his cup of tea and gently guides him to the sofa. The TV is still going; he switches it off.

They sit in silence, while they sip their tea.  
“Do you want to talk about it?”, asks Grantaire after a while, because it definitely isn’t his business but it’s worth a shot. He expects a sharp denial but, to his surprise, for a long moment Enjolras looks like he’s actually considering the answer. He opens and closes his mouth a few times before he eventually speaks: “What were you feeling when you almost dropped Uni?”, he eventually asks, his voice rough despite the tea. It’s not the answer Grantaire was expecting, but he is also quite sure that Enjolras is not going to drop University, so he figures there must be some hidden meaning behind the question.

He shrugs: “I felt like I was falling down a never-ending rabbit hole of painter’s block, alcoholism and despair. I didn’t feel good enough; didn’t feel worthy of myself, of you guys, of the whole word, which I did not care about but which seemed to be entirely on my shoulders anyway”. He puts down his empty mug on the floor. “I felt like shit, to sum up”.

Enjolras looks thoughtful. It feels like ages before he speaks again. “My father told me I am a disappointment. He feels like my grades would be higher and my chances of success would be better if I just dropped Les Amis. And if I stopped being ‘unreasonable’ about — about, you know”. His voice breaks towards the end of the sentence.

Grantaire feels bad, but he does _not_ know what he is referring to. “I really don’t know” he says, shaking his head, apologetic.

Enjolras looks at him with just the faintest hint of surprise in his eyes. “‘ _That thing you keep insisting on_ ’”, he says, with a mock voice that is still too rough from all the crying to be properly sarcastic, “‘ _That you like guys. Utter nonsense, I say. Utter nonsense, when will you stop being so stubborn? You’re twenty-two, for God’s sake’_ ”.

Grantaire feels a fit. There’s something very familiar in this sort of parental denial, and Enjolras’ father’s words hit close to home.

The first instinct, however, despite the sympathy, is to say “ _You’re gay_?”; Grantaire knows it’s not the right thing to say, though, so he settles for a heartfelt “That’s fucking bullshit” instead. Since Enjolras’ eyes are getting watery again, he gently adds: “What did you tell him?”.

Enjolras seems to shrink. “Nothing”, he answers, voice as thin as a sheet of paper. “I panicked and hung up on him”. He pauses, but after a moment he keeps talking: “Because I thought, what if he’s right? Never mind the gay part, but — what if I should really be approaching all of this from a different perspective? Maybe I am bad for Les Amis, maybe this group is a dead end and I should just focus on my lawyer career, see if I can fight for what I believe in for a living. You know what I mean?”. Tears are now coming out of his eyes in full force again, rolling down his cheeks and wetting Grantaire’s t-shirt. He seems so lost. “What if I’m wasting my time and my life, Grantaire?”

Grantaire doesn’t quite know what to say. He doesn’t even know what Enjolras expects him to say; but then again, Enjolras has probably come to him because he didn’t want to interrupt anyone else’s couple-y evening, so maybe he doesn’t really expect anything more than sympathy from this little heart-to-heart.

He’s watching Grantaire, though, and he looks like he’s actually waiting for an answer, so Grantaire figures he can at least try to be a good friend. “I know that I am no Combeferre or no Courfeyrac —”, he starts to say, because he wants to clarify that his advice should be really taken with a grain of salt, but Enjolras sniffs and shakes his head, interrupting him: “That’s exactly why I’m here”.

Grantaire frowns. Now he’s definitely lost. “I don’t follow you, Apollo”.

Enjolras swallows a few times, looking like he’s trying to get rid of a lump in his throat. His cup of tea, now empty, is still in his hands; he puts it down on the floor. “I don’t need Combeferre or Courfeyrac, right now. I mean, they _are_ my best friends, and they usually give me good advices. But if they believe that I should figure something out by myself, they won’t tell me what to do. And they played a role in founding Les Amis exactly as much as I did, so they can’t be — they can’t be objective about this”. Enjolras swallows again, looking like he’s doing his hardest to not start sobbing again. “You don’t tiptoe. You don’t wait until I figure out stuff by myself, you don’t sugarcoat. If it’s fucking bullshit, you call fucking bullshit”.

If Grantaire had been punched in the guts, it would’ve hurt less. That was not what he was expecting. At all.

He fidgets a little on his own sofa, trying to gain some time and think about an adequate answer. Grantaire’s never been less at ease in his whole life. “Do you feel like Les Amis is useless?”, he asks eventually. “Like, when you are there, talking about the stuff you care about, with your friends. Do you think it’s useless?”

Enjolras looks taken aback. “No, of course I don’t. But I guess it could be the heat of the moment, you know? Like when you’re wasted and another drink feels like a good idea, but then in the morning you find out that it was actually a really bad idea”. Enjolras blinks, then he seems to realise that he’s talking to a struggling ex-alcoholic. To be honest, Grantaire doesn’t feel offended by the simile, if anything it helped him understand better how Enjolras is feeling at the moment, but Enjolras frowns. “Fuck”, he says, and after a beat he adds, “I’m sorry, Grantaire, I didn’t mean — you’re here, you’re trying to help me, and —”.

Grantaire clicks his tongue and shakes his head, shuffling a bit closer to Enjolras. “No, Apollo, no. Stop that. I got what you meant, I’m not offended, I am better now, you know that I’d hate it if the topic became a taboo. Stop that, alright? I call fucking bullshit on you feeling guilty”.

Enjolras bites his own lower lip, still frowning but fighting back a smile, and nods.  
Possessed by some self-destructive impulse, Grantaire wipes away a tear from Enjolras’ cheek; he can’t bear to see him in this state anymore, his heart keeps breaking a little more every time Enjolras sobs. He expects Enjolras to flinch; instead, he slightly turns his head before Grantaire can draw back and presses his cheek against Grantaire’s hand. He closes his eyes and breathes.

“This is not useless”, Grantaire says in a whisper, even though his throat is dry and his heart is hammering against his chest. “What you do, all of you, is important. Your dad may not see this, but it’s important. I can see it. The world needs people like you, who don’t give up and keep trying. You are not going to end up on your knees, Apollo, you’re going to end up on the top of the world. You’re still young. It’s not time to give up. It’s not. Les Amis? It’s not going to be a group that nearly became history. You’re going to fucking _write it_ ”.

Enjolras opens his eyes and looks straight at him. “How can you be so bitter about the rest of the world and so hopeful about me?”, he asks.

Grantaire shrugs. Enjolras’ cheek is still resting on his hand. He doesn’t know how they got so close. Physically, and emotionally. “I believe in you. You’re the centre, you’re the Sun. That’s how it is, I’d have to be a moron if I chose to believe in Ptolemy instead. Furthermore, Copernicus was clearly more clever, even if a tiny bit coward, and —”.

Enjolras cuts him off leaning closer and brushing his lips against Grantaire’s.

It’s soft and delicate, and Grantaire’s heart stops beating for two seconds at least.

Enjolras looks at him, eyes still red-rimmed but calmer, more serene. “Do you call fucking bullshit on this?”, he whispers, with a mix of hope and uncertainty in his gaze.

Grantaire wants to shake his head, but he’s petrified. When his tongue speaks, he doesn’t know where the words come from: “I call fucking bullshit on you stopping to ask me if I call fucking bullshit“.

Enjolras laughs loudly, this time; his breath tickles Grantaire’s skin. He rests his right hand on Grantaire’s neck, and they go back to kissing.

Grantaire is about 90% sure he’s hallucinating; there is no other explanation for Enjolras coming to him at 12 am, or Enjolras being almost on top of him, or Enjolras giving him open mouth kisses, or _literally anything_ that’s happening right now.

“You’re gorgeous”, Enjolras says, finally straddling on Grantaire’s lap; Grantaire makes an inhuman sound and buries his hands in Enjolras’ hair in response.

Enjolras kisses like he argues: he tries to stay quiet and collected at first, but then he gets caught in the heat of the moment and loses every bit of self-control he has.

Grantaire knows they should stop this; they should stop right now and have a long, fulfilling talk. They should clarify what on Earth is going on and since when Enjolras thinks Grantaire is gorgeous (somehow, it sounds like a vital piece of information, at the moment). They should talk about commitment, make clear that this is no pity-fuck, decide limits and boundaries, and all the other stuff that adults should talk about in this kind of situation.  
They should. Grantaire _knows_ that they should.

In his defence, he does try to say something when Enjolras breaks off the kiss to gasp for air. He _swears to God_ — he opens his mouth to say: _“We should talk”._ But then Enjolras pulls the hem of his t-shirt, urging Grantaire to take it off, and he’s only human, so he stops dead in his tracks and simply obliges.

His own t-shirt ends up somewhere behind him, hitting something that falls on the floor, but Grantaire can’t really bring himself to care. Enjolras stops to stare at his bare chest. Grantaire is suddenly tremendously self-conscious. He thinks that maybe this is the time to stop all of this and be a mature adult but, as soon as he braces himself to speak, Enjolras interrupts him and simply states: “Christ, I’m hard”.

He says it like it’s a fact; Grantaire has seen him make remarks before, and he’s heard Enjolras say “ _Tomorrow is going to rain”,_ or “ _This soup needs salt_ “ with the exact same tone he’s used right now.

Grantaire hears himself whine faintly. Every intention to be a mature adult has merrily fucked off in the night, by now, so he simply reaches for Enjolras’ ( _his_ ) t-shirt and tugs it off.

Enjolras’ chest is pale, his skin smooth and his body hair so blonde it’s practically invisible.  
“Is this marble? Is this skin? 90% will get it wrong”, mutters Grantaire, touching lightly Enjolras’ skin with one finger.

Enjolras looks at him and snorts. “There is no 90%. It’s me and you, and I’m _not_ a statue”, he says, then tilts his neck to the side. “Go try and bruise Cupids’s neck at the Louvre, tomorrow morning. Let’s make a comparison with mine“.

“I’m going to get arrested if I do”, mutters Grantaire in response, then leaves a soft kiss on Enjolras’ exposed neck.  
Enjolras exhales. “It’s for the sake of science”, he says. “But if you really don’t want to, you’re going to have to take my word for it and only bruise mine“.

Grantaire can’t simply restrain himself anymore; he lightly bites Enjolras’ skin, and sucks a bit. Since Enjolras doesn’t speak up to complain, Grantaire digs his teeth and sucks a bit harder. Enjolras moans. Loud and shaky. Grantaire is going to have a stroke. His hands automatically go to Enjolras’ ass, which is still sitting on his lap, and squeeze. Enjolras moans louder.

Grantaire mouths his neck, he kisses it and lightly bites it again. Enjolras’ hands, once resting on Grantaire’s shoulders, now dig deep in his hair and tug. And the tug, there is no way to put it down with finesse, goes straight to Grantaire’s dick.

Enjolras tugs again, and urges Grantaire to lift his head to pull him in a kiss all teeth and tongue.

“ _Please_ ”, Enjolras says against Grantaire’s mouth, with such a tiny and shaky voice that, if he were asking Grantaire to overthrow the government, Grantaire would do it immediately, and twice.

“Whatever you want”, Grantaire pants in response, still squeezing to pull him closer. “However you want”.

They kiss again. Enjolras has his eyes closed and a focused, desperate frown; Grantaire has lost any sense of time and space. He could do this forever. The Apocalypse could come and he’d still be kissing Enjolras as if he had ambrosia on his tongue.

In the end, however, Grantaire gains back the tiniest bit of sanity and realises that this is not the night for him to fuck Enjolras, or vice versa. Even though Enjolras profusely assures him that it’s fine and that he should “ _Really fucking move_ ”, Grantaire just doesn’t want his first time with Enjolras to be like this. And he doesn’t want Enjolras’ first time with him to be like this.

All of this should be coming after a date; after they argued about who should pay the check, or about who should cook at home; after they tore apart each other in politics, and after they laughed until their stomach muscles ached. Enjolras should not be scared, and sad, and lost.  
This _thing_ between them shouldn’t be something that fills a void; it should be something that completes the missing part of a piece they didn’t know it was there before. If that makes sense.

Grantaire tries to explain it to Enjolras, but the guy just won’t stop staring at his lips, so he loses track at some time and they just end up kissing and getting each other off furiously on the sofa.

Enjolras makes little, high-pitched moans against Grantaire’s neck; Grantaire whines and comes embarrassingly quickly, dignity in shreds but satisfaction at its peak.

Enjolras emits a tiny, satisfied hum and closes his eyes.

“Should we go to bed? Get some sleep, huh?”, asks Grantaire, but Enjolras mumbles something against his skin that vaguely resembles a “’m good here”.  
So Grantaire has to carry Enjolras, almost already completely asleep, to his own bed. He really doesn’t mind — Enjolras must be exhausted.

Grantaire himself falls asleep almost instantly; he doesn’t even have the time to think that, if all of this is a dream, then he doesn’t want to wake up.

***

When he wakes up, at least in the dream where Enjolras came to his place in the middle of the night, Enjolras is still there.

He’s still sleeping, face and blonde curls smashed against the pillow, his body wrapped up in Grantaire’s blankets and his left arm thrown across Grantaire’s chest.

Grantaire could die in this very moment, and he would be happy.

Trying to stay still as much as possible, he reaches for his phone on the nightstand. He has a text message from Courfeyrac.

07:34 am : _hey r is enj with you?_

Grantaire looks at Enjolras next to him. So he didn’t tell anyone where he was going, last night; either he’s incredibly secretive or incredibly silly. Grantaire loves him anyway.

9:12 am : _he’s with me. thought he told you guys_

Courfeyrac answers right away:

9:12 am : _THANK GOD EVERYONE IS WORRIED SICK_  
9:13 am : WE _COULDN’T FIND HIM ANYWHERE THE FUCKER SWITCHED HIS PHONE OFF_  
9:14 am : _slaP him on the fAce on my behalf_  
9:14 am : _the last text was jehan’s but I wholeheartedly agree_

Grantaire smiles and answers:

9:15 am : _he’s fine, but he looks pretty tired. still sleeping. I’m sure he didn’t mean to worry anyone._

Courfeyrac doesn’t even try to pretend he isn’t picking up the implication of Grantaire’s texts.

9:16 am : _what the fuck have you slept together  
_ 9:17 am : _HAVE YOU FINALLY SLEPT TOGETHER_

Grantaire doesn’t want to disclose any personal information without consulting Enjolras before, but if he doesn’t talk about what happened with someone he thinks his head might explode; he glances at Enjolras. He’s still sleeping with a peaceful face, completely oblivious of Grantaire’s own personal hell.

9:18 am : _i mean he kissed me? but he didn’t look very well last night_  
9:19 am : _i mean he ALWAYS looks good, but he wasn’t his usual self so maybe it was a moment of weakness and he doesn’t really like me_

Courfeyrac doesn’t answer straight away this time. Grantaire is slowly falling in a bottomless pit of despair and insecurity.

9:35 am : _this is jEHAN and YOU need to get your shit together. Grantaire I’m Serious as Hell, do you even listen to yourself. enjolras comes to you in the middle of the fucking night and he kisses you and you have the courage to tell me it might’ve been a mistake??? I don’t kiss random people when i’m “"not my usual self”“_  
9:35 am : _this is courf AND I HOPE SO_

In that exact moment, Enjolras stirs and opens his eyes.

He looks at Grantaire and smiles. “Hello. What ‘r you doing?”, he asks. Somehow, even with his voice rough from sleep, he still manages to make it sound like pleasant small talk.  
“I’m warning everyone that you’re not dead. Also, Jehan’s telling me to get a grip on my self“, Grantaire answers, putting away his phone.

Enjolras’ smile gets a little wider; he shrugs and shifts closer to Grantaire: “Well”, he says. “It don’t cost much”.

Grantaire laughs while Enjolras puts his chin on Grantaire’s chest.

“You do know you’re free to be whatever you choose, though, right? Whatever you do, whatever you say, I know it’s alright”, Grantaire says, only half joking.

Enjolras goes quiet for a moment, looking pensive. Then he answers, with the tiniest of smiles: “I know now. Thank you”. And after a beat, he adds: “Do you think I am allowed to be a straight A student, part of Les Amis and your boyfriend all together?”.

Again, that tone. The tone of chit-chat, the tone of “ _tomorrow’s going to rain_ ”.

Grantaire’s heart makes a leap. “You are allowed to be all of this, and many other things“, he answers, way too honest for his own good.

Enjolras nods. “Great”, he says. “Let’s start from the most pleasant one. I want to snog“.  
Grantaire barks a laugh, just to keep himself sane: “God, I’m _never_ going to call bullshit on this”.

Enjolras pulls himself up, and starts padding towards the bathroom. “I hope so”, he says. “Now, get up. I want to do so many things and, if you’ve got no other plans for today, none of these things will include leaving this apartment. This day’s going to be amazing”.

Grantaire obliges.  
For the first time in twenty three years, he knows that it’s going to be amazing indeed.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know? I just wanted to write something where Enjolras was sad, because I have a soft spot for Enjolras seeking for help and Grantaire being the one in control even though he doesn't quite know what he's doing. I know it's clichéd and everything but who cares, right? I apologise for any mistake I might've made, English is not even my native language, have mercy


End file.
